She tried to love November’s thin shoulders,
the meager mustache that lined his lip
while lowdown, bumless baggy pants
crimped at his waist like pie crust.
She tried to love November’s wet eye whites
shining like nacre at night as she hurried
under the covers. She tried to
love this burned out month,
a black forest cake without the cherries
and whip cream.
She tried to love November’s smoky breath
and took his last cigarette, cupped her hand
around the flame, touched his wrist to
steady both their hands, but
then he coughed and blew it out.